Incessant
by Shannon Picton
Summary: When Isabella Swan moves away from sunny Phoenix to small-town Forks she's met with the oddest group of people she's ever met. The Cullens are both beautiful and utterly mad, excluding the youngest, Edward, who pales in comparison to his eccentric adopted siblings. Bella quickly finds herself obsessed with the sickly boy and his brilliant mind. But what are the Cullens hiding?


Disclaimer: Do we really have to do this still? I obviously don't own twilight. I do, however, own a swimming certificate which, in my opinion, is much better.

Incessant

A Twilight Fanfiction

By Shannon Picton

First Light

The spines of the potted miniature cactus prick into my lap through my bag as intensely as my mother's sadness. Her eyes follow me as I hop out of her shiny, red Mercedes and into my father's waiting arms. The smell of Tabaco and spicy aftershave clings to his leather jacket and his stubble scratches my cheek. He is handsome for a man of fifty-something with a solid build and a signature moustache that identifies him throughout Forks as the Chief of Police.

"Don't have too much fun, honey, I miss you already" says Mom, pushing back her unnaturally blonde hair and readjusting the sunglasses that should have been taken off hours ago, the weather in my father's home town being anything but sunny. Though her voice is sweet and teasing I hear the bite behind her words. She is bitter. She is sad.

My estranged parents eye each other carefully as I pull back from my father's embrace. Behind the thick facial hair I see his lip twitch as my mother extends her hand.

"Hello, Charles.

"René," Charlie's voice is gravely and solemn.

Awkwardness hangs in the air as they shake, my father's hand lingering too long and his eyes following her every move as if she were the most enthralling creature to have ever walked the earth.

"Everything going well?" asks Mom, her words brusque as brushes off invisible dirt from her clothes—all crisp, designer and new.

"Of course. Forks is as safe as always, it never changes."

"Still stuck in the stone ages, then?"

"Something like that."

Despite her efforts to seem aloof her flighty nature is given away by her darting eyes and twiddling fingers. She's so different to Charlie who stands tall and still, unchanging.

"And what about you?" asks Mom, trying to keep eye contact just long enough to appear confident, "How are _you_?"

"I'm fine. Yourself?"

"I'm great, actually. Phil recently got signed. We're all very excited about it, it could be his big break. And I've been attending ballroom dancing lesson between work. Pablo says I'm a natural."

"That's good."

"Yes it is."

Her latest obsession will have undoubtedly run its course by the end of the month. Within the years her passions have included yoga, kickboxing, fashion designing and sky diving, each of which consumed a majority of her time until she grew bored of them. My mother is consistently searching for her signature thing, a hobby or lifestyle to separate herself from the norm. I find it quite bizarre.

"I promise to call every day, Mom," I say quickly, trying to defuse the tense atmosphere still lingering between my parents.

"Of course, honey," she says, her voice strained.

"No really '' I reassure, but a flick of worry passes across her eyes and I wonder if she feels like I've been stolen away by my father—a man who I've only seen on the occasional holiday when he could bring himself to leave the comfort of his own home.

"You be good," she says, leaning down to leave a pillar-box red smudge against my ashen skin.

"Aren't I always?" I joke, wryly.

She doesn't laugh and I'm reminded of the pain I'm causing her. But it's for the best and soon she'll have moved on. It's the only thing that keeps me going; the promise of my mother's happiness.

Her gaze flicks between me and my father, conflicted, looking almost as if she wishes to stay with me as she slides back into the car. Memories of us sitting in the blistering heat of Phoenix and discussing the dreary town she escaped from play in my head. She would hate Forks more than she would love me. The trauma the town had left was too great.

"I love you," Mom says.

"I'll miss you, too," I say.

She nods at Charlie before pulling out of the parking lot. The sleek car sails into the background, a distant flame that carries my old life away. I see Charlie watch me carefully from the corner of my eye, trying to gage my expression. I keep my face excruciatingly neutral as my heart flops painfully in my ribcage.

Between a Toyota and rusty pickup truck my father's police cruiser sits, the blue lettering down its sides glaringly bright against the white body. As I sit down in the passenger seat I marvel over how symbolic this is, as if I'm truly sentencing myself to Forks. Mom often described the dingy town as a prison and I share her sentiment.

The ride to Forks with my father is what one would call strained. I inherited his lack of social skills and so the conversations we engage in together cannot be described as verbose.

"You look well," he says, staring straight ahead, the grey light filtering through the car window highlighting the crinkles and imperfections in his weathered skin.

"Thanks," I say, cringing, my handing coming up to comb out the snags the plane ride knotted into my hair.

"And older," he says.

I smile, unsure how to reply.

I know we've entered Forks when the lighting dims slightly due to a canopy of dark, tumultuous clouds and thick moss begins to clog every surface from the trees to the shack-like houses that line the side of the road. I sink low into my seat. I don't want anyone to see my face gliding by in the cruiser.

"Is there a bus to school?" I ask.

"Oh…err," the visible part of Charlie's cheeks flush red. "You don't need to worry about that, Bella I—"

"It's Isabella, Charlie," I correct.

His eyes narrow. "Right, of course. I was just saying I've already bought you a truck."

"What?" I gasp. "A truck? Really?"

I'd been expecting to have to walk every day in the drizzle seeing as I down right refused the idea of having to go in the police cruiser. That would have been humiliating and not to mention probably slowed traffic down to a point I'd be late most mornings. The prospect of a new truck was more than I'd dared to hope.

"I thought it was probably my duty as _your father _to provide suitable transportation," he says with a trace of steel in his voice, but then his eyes soften. "I wanted to give it to you, anyway. Think of it as a housewarming gift."

"You shouldn't have," I say, glad that he did.

"I know. But I love you Bel—Isabella. I've missed you."

I shift awkwardly in my seat.

Charlie's house is different than the other's in his street. Though all have the same basic structure the house at the end of the road with large garden and forest backdrop looks somewhat neglected in comparison. The pathway leading up to the porch has cracked paving stones and the grass of the front lawn is a little too long and littered with just too many flowering weeds to be considered kempt. The blue house needs a fresh lick of paint and the windows could do with a clean. However the thing that really stands out is the monstrosity of a truck that's parked out front. A huge, ugly thing with bulbous headlights and a rusted grille that have the look of a scowling face. Under the red paint given to update its look I seen an old coat of blue.

"What do you think?" asks Charlie as he pulls up on the drive.

"Oh, Dad," I falter," It's...uh… it's great."

"I wouldn't go that far," he chuckles, "but it's all I could afford. It'll get you from A to B, though, and if it ever does go wrong—not that I'm saying it would—but if it does Billy Black's son will sort it out. You remember Jacob right?"

"Jacob?"

"Yeah. Nice kid. Good rates too. Did my cruiser for a pittance."

"Oh, no sorry. Not really," I say.

"Never mind. It has been years I suppose. I'm sure you'll see him around since he has to wheel Billy everywhere nowadays."

I blink in surprise. "Billy's in a wheelchair?"

"He's been disabled for years, Bella."

I blush with embarrassment.

Charlie opens the front door for me and I smile graciously as we duck inside out of the cold and sleeting rain. My canvas shoes squeak on the floorboards as I turn to hang my jacket on the empty coat hooks and lean my luggage against the wall. The house is warm with blue and cream walls and wooden panelling.

"Are you hungry?" asks Charlie hanging up his leather jacket and ever-present gun.

"A bit," I say, "I didn't eat on the plane."

"I don't blame you. Planes aren't exactly famous for their fine dining. I don't think I could cook anything as decent as your mother, but I could try making some pasta. Or we could go to Stephanie's if you wanted."

"Pasta would be great," I say.

As I go to follow Charlie to the kitchen something catches my eye. Staggered across the hallway wall alongside the stairs an array of large, mismatched frames hang, holding a variety of photographs. They depict various scenes; a teenage Charlie embraced by two grinning boys, both with coffee coloured skin and long, dark hair, who I can only assume to be Billy Black and Harry Clearwater; Uncle Mick celebrating his fiftieth birthday, the candles topping the round cake eliminating the singing faces encircling the table; my cousins and I making mud pies as very small children and even my mother smiling demurely on a swing, her hair dark and her skin flushed with youth.

I find it slightly odd to see a young version of her smiling back at me from within her ex-husbands house, but I can't blame Dad. She's beautiful. It's none of these photos, however, that makes me hesitate in my tracks.

The smallest of the photos is monochrome and rather bland in comparison to the vibrant pictures surrounding it. A young woman looks directly into the lens of the camera. The way she holds herself makes appears irresolute, balanced stiffly on the edge of her seat under a tree. Her hair is long and waving, curling at her temples and other than her eyes—which appear pale—she looks exactly like me.

"That's Grandma Swan," says Charlie from behind me, making me jump.

"Oh," I say, reaching out to touch her face with my fingertips, "I think I can see a family resemblance."

He chuckles and nods. "You're a Swan, Bells, through and through."

I follow him into the kitchen. It's cramped and smells of lingering burnt toast, though I see no toaster. The cupboards are lemon and don't match anything else, the chairs around the dining table being red and displayed mugs and utensils being anything other than yellow.

I perch on the edge of the chair Charlie ushers me to as he fumbles around in the kitchen, revealing just how bare the cupboards are inside. A deep sigh leaves me as I come to the realisation that he mustn't cook a lot. In fact it wouldn't surprise me if he ate at Stephanie's Diner every night. I decide to take on the responsibility of ensure he gets properly fed.

When the pasta is ready—overcooked with a too runny sauce—Charlie sits with me at the table. He winces at his own food and pokes at it with a frown.

"We should have gotten take-out," he says.

"It's not _that _bad," I lie.

Charlie smiles weakly and grimaces his way through the first few mouthfuls of his meal.

I suddenly find myself intensely missing home. Not just my mom or my friends—if I can call Lindsey and Bailey that—or even the sanctuary of my bedroom, but my routine. How I'd get home from school to be greeted with the scent of spice and herbs, the tell tail signs of another delicacy being created by my mother over the stove. How we'd watch _L.A's Guide to a Woman _between conversations about our day and how Maria from the show was such a bitch. The urge to call my mom to ask her to take me back home has my fingers twitching.

Charlie glances up at me through a particularly distasteful bite and frowns at my expression. I curse my lack of acting skills.

"Are you okay, Isabella?" he asks.

I nod, forcing a smile that I hope looks genuine.

Charlie gives me a replying encouraging smile, peeking up at me worriedly as we eat in silence. My hair covers my face, hiding the pained expression there. I loathe Forks. That teamed with sadness of leaving my beloved mother has me nearly overwhelmed.

"You don't have to stay here, sweetie," says Charlie quietly.

"I'm not tired enough for sleep," I say, pushing around my food, not ready to come face to face with the room I'll be spending most of my time in now.

"I mean in Forks. No body's forcing you to stay with me."

"I _want _to be with you, Dad," I say, with at least some conviction.

He doesn't argue, but I can tell he's not convinced. In an attempt to put his mind at ease I search for some light topic of conversation.

"So school starts at seven o'clock, right?"

Charlie nods. "On the dot. Would you like me to wake you up?"

"No. I'm good, thank you. I doubt I'll be able to sleep anyway."

"You don't need to worry. I've sorted everything out for you with the front office. You're a clever girl, B—Isabella, you'll have no trouble."

He's right. I _am _intelligent, but it's not the classes I'm worried about. Later, from within the bathroom, I brush my hair and clean my teeth; the nightly rituals take longer than expected with my tooth brush hidden in one of my bags and the task that was to be my tangled tresses, they are monotonous and I do them automatically, giving my brain plenty of freedom to think about other things. I dwell on how much has changed since just last week. How I live in a whole different place now with completely different people and a completely different school. How I'm going to have to start from scratch how social-wise. I feel like I've changed just from being here, maybe I have.

Looking in the mirror, I see a girl with long hair, mahogany in colour and waving around a soft heart-shaped face. She looks at me with big, dark chocolate eyes framed with generous lashes. She smiles at me, plump, soft lips parting to show off straight white teeth. Yes, I still look like me, but there are subtle differences.

My skin, once described as porcelain, has taken on a sickly undertone here. I look like death. This is amplified by my small frame, my petite shoulders hunched over in protection. I can no longer pass for pretty. With the sun gone so has the trick of the light.

I call down goodnight to my dad before entering my new bedroom. It's so dark I barely miss clipping myself on the hulking wardrobe, the blinking lights of the computer screen by the far wall providing enough lighting for me to not injure myself. I crawl under the ridiculous, frilly duvet on the bed and curl up on my side. From the window on the adjacent wall I watch the moon disappear and reappear from behind the blanketing clouds. I find myself wondering if I'll ever see the sun again as I drift off to sleep.

The clouds are thicker in the morning and it's begun to rain. I hear the patter of the downpour on the roof as I wash and pull on several layers of clothing. The high necked, blue, woollen sweater is surprisingly soft against the skin of my throat, but I still find my fingers reaching up to tug it away from my jugular. When I go downstairs I find a note written by Charlie on the kitchen table. It wishes me luck. I scoff. His luck is wasted.

The drive to school is a short one which I'm not happy about. There's no time to ground myself or fight off the strong sense of nausea churning in my gut. I catch sight of the school behind the perpetually unending thicket of trees that contour the roads and poke up in the far distance. The school consists of a cluster of red bricked buildings of various dimensions and a small, already half-filled car park. It lacks the feel of conformity I'm used to as well as the size. I park up truck and shuffle my way towards the building marked _front office._ My nerves slow my feet and the closer I get to the glass doors the sicker I feel.

The inside is surprisingly toasty and the sudden rush of warmth flushes my cheeks. The décor is decidedly bland with a large clock over a glass cabinet that displays a lacking about of trophies and certificates. The walls and floor are a light beige and the only colour in the room comes from the sage plastic chairs alongside the Principal's Office door and yet another tree—small and potted, sitting on the receptionist desk.

The middle aged lady behind the front desk looks more suited as an art teacher than a receptionist. She wears loose clothes, an ancient looking shawl thing and her hands are clustered with rings, bangles and woven bracelets. Her red-ish hair is a mess of corkscrew curls that stick up around her face. My mother would describe her as a hot mess. I'd agree.

"Bella Swan!" she says before I can even open my mouth.

"Isabella," I correct.

"Of course, or course. How are you?" she says, a little too informally.

"Good," I say uneasily.

"And how are you enjoying being back home in Forks?" she asks as turns to a stack of precariously balanced files on her desk and pulls out several slips of yellow paper.

I bridle slightly at that. Forks has never been my home and it never will be. Home is with the heat and my mother and the life I wish I was currently living. Forks is a place I will reside in for as long as it's best for me to do so. But of course I say none of this.

"It's good," I say weakly.

"I bet it is. The Chief has been talking non-stop to everyone about his beautiful daughter finally coming to live with him. I can barely go into town without hearing about you," she chortles.

I'm unsure what to say and so mumble out something that sounds vaguely polite. It satisfies the receptionist's curiosity enough—her badge identifies her as Ms Cope—so that she hands me a school map, an empty grid for my teachers to sign and my timetable. I glance down at today's agenda and groan inwardly. My lessons consist of Art, Drama, Spanish, German, Biology and double Gym. Where's the Advance Chemistry and Math? A few times a week? I feel like I've been given the leftover classes.

Had this been any other day and not a first day I'd have argued about the matter, but the nerves in my stomach keep me from doing so; the butterflies in my stomach choking my words.

"You have great day now, Bella," says Ms Cope.

I inwardly scowl.

The map is small, reflecting the tiny size of the school in its entirety and, to my horror, I quickly discover the Art Block is situated quite a distance from the main building and away from any cover. I almost consider not going—my art skills being less than poor and my desire to get wet even lower than that—but I'm sure the teacher will already be aware of my presents here. The mere fact the receptionist could recognise me so easily suggests news spreads like wildfire—how ironic—around here.

I trudge my away across the school grounds, my feet squelching as I try ignore the curious looks that come my way from under the hoods of raincoats and woolly hats. Rather, I try to look like I don't notice. Even as I hang my coat up in the cloak room and enter classroom B17 the stares continue. They are joined by hushed whispers when I turn my back to introduce myself to the teacher.

Like the receptionist Ms Clement recognises my name instantly, but goes about it in a much softer way, jokingly inquiring how the Chief of Police is managing with all the crime in Forks. She's an elderly lady with an impossibly tiny build, grey eyes and grey hair pulled back into a bun. There's a kindness about her face that is confirmed in her personality when she tells me to sit wherever I'd like.

"First days are stressful enough without having to sit somewhere you don't want to," she says. "And don't worry Isabella, I'm sure you'll love it here with us in Forks."

I choose a seat at the back of the class with no neighbour. A few students turn their heads to get a good look at me, hastily pretending to be looking at the wall when I peep up from under my hair. My cheeks flush scarlet at all the unwanted attention.

Ms Clement starts the lesson a few minutes early; it spares me a few more agonising moments of being surveyed like a strange, foreign animal. I sink lower into my seat, allowing the thick curtain of my hair to further hide my face—a chocolate drape that acts as an impenetrable shield. I feel vulnerable and unsettled and it's apparently obvious. As Ms Clement comes around distributing paper she smiles at me reassuringly before continuing briefing us on this semester's topic.

"I'll all about you, my dears," she says. "I know most of you pretty well by now, but how well do you know yourselves? This topic is so much more fun and creative than the last one as well as eye opening. We'll be developing ideas that reflect who we are, what we like and who has impacted our lives. In fact we'll evetua—"

"_Stop!"_

I yelp as the door flies open with a crash.

A huge man towers in the entrance of the room, his arms braced against the doorframe. His whole body is wrapped in thick muscle and his dark eyes are wide, intense and wild. His breath is shallow and pulls his taupe sweater tight over his heaving chest. He is the sort of man I fear when going down a dark alleyway at night. Brutish and unstoppable.

"Hello, Emmett," says Ms Clement, continuing handing out paper and pencils. She looks somehow even frailer compared to the tense beast by the door.

The man's eyes narrow, dark and hunter-like.

"Would you care to take a seat?" she asks.

I wait for the reply, the defiance or at least an excuse for his behaviour. The other students seem not to be quite as shocked as myself, but they watch him with the same curiosity that only moments before had been directed at me. Except only now it's mixed with an edge of fear or at least distrust that one would direct at a rabid dog.

"You started the lesson without me," accuses the man, his voice rasping over the short words.

I blink in surprise.

"Yes, Emmett, now sit down," says Ms Clement, not bothering to look towards him. "We're sketching today."

Spontaneously, as if a switch has been flipped, all hostility leaves his face and a serene smile pulls at his lips. The change unnerves me, as does the too still way he holds himself, poised like a predator.

His eyes snap to me, catching me gaping from behind my protective hair. I quickly lower my eyes, fixing them on the desk and occupying my jittering hands with my pencil. It's too late though. I can almost feel the vibrations of his footsteps as he ignores the other empty seats to plonk himself down next to me. He is giant. Dwarfing my five-foot-four height and making me feel unnervingly defenceless.

I continue to stare at the desk even as he stares at me. And it's only him staring, too. The others seem to have suddenly grow disinterested, as if the previous interruption had settled them into old familiarity.

"Mmmerit."

"Pardon?" I ask my eyes flicking up automatically.

His smile is that of a child and with all the aggression no longer poisoning his face I abruptly realise that I'm staring into the face of an angel. It brings all thought processes to an unexpected halt, like a crashing computer. It shocks me so deeply I only just catch his words, equally as unexplainably hypnotising as his appearance.

"I'm Emmett," he says.

"Oh."

Another person would feel uncomfortable under my gawping, but, as an angel, Emmett continues to smile blissfully even when a full minute passes, a completely unacceptable amount of time to retain eye contact.

"What's your name?"

"Bella Swan."

He turns away from me with a snap of the head and picks up the pencil with his massive hand. He listens to the teacher closely, nodding with her as she gives her instructions for the day. When he draws it's carefully, as if with constant effort not to snap the pencil. His work is abstract and could easily have come from the hand of either a six year old or Picasso. By the end of the lesson he has drawn a crude representation of his family: his parents, two brothers, a sister and what is either a sister with short hair or a brother in a skirt.

My face turns the colour of a prune as I realise what an ass I'm being. It's not like there weren't attractive jocks back in Phoenix, I scold myself. Yet even as I hand in my own unsophisticated depiction of my family, I find my eyes tracking the manchild out of the classroom. The other students part from him, their faces holding a mix of fear and revere. Much like the expression displayed blatantly on my own face.

"Don't worry, dear," says Ms Clement, "You'll get use to him."

That I severely doubt.

A/N

Heyo! This is our (two separate entities working here) first fanfic. We're going to keep it based roughly on the book, but with our own unique twist that we think you'll enjoy, at least we hope you will. We have no beta, but we've done a somewhat of reasonable job where correct grammar and spelling is concerned, in our opinion anyway. Constructive criticism is always welcome on this and any matter. There is some OOCness, however we think this benefits the story overall and has been done to enrich your experience. It's M for a reason, adult themes and the such, but I'm sure you've read worse. We're on the internet after all. This, most likely, will be our longest A/N, so worry not for paragraphs at the beginning and end of each chapter. We have nothing particularly interesting to write home about, other than blatant grovelling for people to review. Thanks so much for reading and we hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters (whenever they may come out.)

Peace out and other jive terms.

SP


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